


Born in Blood

by Kirrae



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Completionist Dovahkiin is a Completionist, F/M, Vilkas has issues with marrying an assassin, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 11:51:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirrae/pseuds/Kirrae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He stood there gaping like a fish for several long minutes, unable to process what had just happened to him. By the time he could comprehend the fact that he was getting married, Aela had an arm around his shoulders and was laughing in his ear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Born in Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Skyrim. I swear.

She _is_ the Dragonborn, but in that moment she looks more than _dovahkiin_ \- looks dragonkind, with all the knowledge, power, and defiance of the great beasts. She may only have been recently recognized as their savior, but he remembers the day she killed a dragon outside the gates of Whiterun. The rumors had proceeded her return, news of the Greybeard’s summons, tales of a woman stealing a dragon’s soul, it dying at her own hands. 

He’d scoffed at the idea of a small, dark elf woman being the Dragonborn. Now he laughs whenever anyone else has the same reaction. He’s seen her take down dragons, seen her absorb their souls, seen her shout words in a language he’s never heard. He knows better these days. 

He hadn’t recognized her, once she’d shown up at Jorrvaskr asking to join the Companions. Her name wasn’t quite known at the time, had not the weight it does now. She’d apparently slugged through much of Skyrim, her armor showed heavy wear and she was decently familiar with their ways, for an outsider. The sword at her hip was an odd blade made of what appeared to be teeth, she claimed she took it off a member of the Foresworn, one she’d killed. He hadn’t thought much of her, didn’t want to deal with another whelp who couldn’t wield a proper blade or keep her place. She seemed like the type to waltz in and cause mass chaos. 

She is. She can’t help it, her presence just incites madness and she thrives off of it. 

She’s in front of him now, all black armor, the blur of a cape, and smooth violence as she beheads a member of the Silver Hand with nothing more than a flick of her wrist. She’s quick and efficient in a way that echoes of shadows. And damn it all if he doesn’t find that one of the most attractive things he’s ever seen. He should hate that about her. The subterfuge, her ability to glide through the shadows and become one with them. It isn’t strictly honorable, but she tends to avoid it on any missions she runs with the Companions. He’s almost certain that, in the name of any other collective, she wouldn’t be quite so blunt about her entrance on a battlefield. 

And it isn’t the violence that he’s attracted to, either. He’s dealt with a lot of violent women. Aela being a prime example. No, it’s the laconic efficiency, the carelessness with which she seems to cut down her enemies as if they were nothing to her. She doesn’t relish the kill in the way Aela does, she doesn’t use it to vent, and she doesn’t claim to do it only because she must. She kills because she can, because she is as much mer as she is Dovah. 

“Are you going to keep staring, or are you going to actually help?” She calls over her shoulder. She turns forward muttering under her breath about strange Nords and their staring. 

He shakes his head to clear it, remembers Kodlak, remembers that she _wasn’t there_ , and he feels the rage of loss overtake him again. There will be time to muse on certain elves and their strange attitudes later. For now, there are men who deserve to die. 

* * *

 

When it’s over and he feels drained of all emotion, he feels like a disappointment. 

They camp out under the stars that night. It’s too late to head straight back to Jorrvaskr - actually, that’s the lie they tell each other. In all honesty, he’d been dragging his feet and she’d noticed, so they moved to the side of the road and pulled out their bedrolls. 

“You regret it now, don’t you?” 

He ignored her. 

“And you blame me, don’t you?” 

“You weren’t there.” 

“I wasn’t. And you had to do it.” She paused to collect her thoughts, the stillness and silence almost reverberating between them. “If we didn’t take them out, they’d just attack Jorrvaskr again. Especially if they knew they killed Koldak. You may feel remorse for ending their lives in rage, that’s normal. He may not have wanted you to go on a rampage after his death, Vilkas, but it needed to be done and anger is a part of grief. Warriors are specifically prone to that state, I think.” 

“What do you know of it, whelp?” He couldn’t stop himself from challenging her. He tried, but he just couldn’t keep the insults from slipping off his tongue in her presence. Something about her had always unnerved him. 

“I know how I felt when my brother died, how I wanted something to kill or at least maim when I found out what happened to my father.” 

“So, your point is that you know how I feel?” 

“Yes, Vilkas. That’s my point. I know how you feel. So don’t let it drive you crazy, because you aren’t alone. Shield brothers, and everything. We’ve got your back.” She even went so far as to throw an arm over his shoulder and squeeze him into what could pass for a hug. He was about to comment on her inability to act like a proper Dragonborn when, of course, a dragon decided to shriek and dive down over the cliff above their heads. She sighed, pulled out her sword and readied a healing spell in her off hand while he pulled out a bow and tried to force the beast onto the ground. 

“I hate it when they do this. Can’t you ever let a girl sleep? Honestly, I think you guys have a vendetta against me.” She took a breath and shouted words in that ancient tongue, a lick of fire exploding in the air in front of her and hitting the dragon square in the chest. It responded with a breath of ice, but she just laughed as the attack barely affected her through the enchanted armor. It seemed puzzled by her laughter and in that brief pause, Vilkas took aim, and shot it in the chest. The ice dragon lowered its body to the ground and she charged, four slices to the flanks, and then she sunk her blade through the dragon’s skull. 

She absorbed the soul and sat back down by the fire. 

“Nayera,” he called, tongue almost tripping over the foreign name. “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome, Vilky. You wanna get some sleep? Or just head out?” They ended up just sitting by the fire, talking for a few hours about nothing in particular. In stark contrast to the last time they’d worked together, this time, Vilkas did everything he could to engage her in conversation. It was surprisingly nice. 

* * *

 

She pulled Wuuthrad out of the statue of Ysgramor’s hands, then turned to them as their new Harbinger. Her red-on-red eyes just a glint of light underneath the black hood, her face entirely covered, and yet, he knew that underneath the mask she was smiling at them. 

She moved to Farkas first and punched him lightly on the shoulder. “I can’t believe you’re afraid of spiders. Frostbite or not, you’re bigger than they are. Good thing you stayed back, though.” Vilkas watched as his brother took the lighthearted teasing with characteristic good humor, laughing. She then turned to him, telling him to take all the time he needed in looking around the tomb. 

“I’ll see you both when you get back.” 

“Provided you aren’t off on some world-saving venture, of course.” She threw back her head with a laugh. He could almost see dark hair whip back from her face, revealing laughing eyes and a smirk. He’d seen that expression on her often enough. 

“If one of those situations arises, I’ll be sure to bring you with me.” 

After that, he really couldn’t help but watch her saunter out of the tomb, steps punctuated by a near-inaudible wisp of fabric. 

“Vilkas, why are you staring at the door?” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“Of course you don’t.” 

He studied the carvings on the far wall for a moment. Farkas cackling behind him. 

“Do you think she knows?” 

“I’m not sure.” 

“I’m doomed, aren’t I?” 

“Probably.” 

* * *

 

She met them back at Jorrvaskr, grinning under  cloak and mask, a familiar amulet glittering over the chestplate of her armor. 

Damn it all, but he couldn’t help himself from asking when she walked up to him, seductive sway in her hips. 

“Is that an amulet of Mara? You’re not married? Surprising.” 

She laughed, a clear honest tone, and laid a hand on his chest, like a solemn oath. Her tone was anything but. “Are you interested in me?” 

He couldn’t deny it. Couldn’t even pretend that his gaze didn’t stray to her more often than it should. He would never be able to deny that he found her captivating. So he told her how he wished to stand by her side, fight for her and with her- “until the Divines take us.” 

She didn’t say yes, no, that’d be too simple. She took off the amulet and laid it in his hand, curling his fingers around it, before tapping him on the nose with a gauntleted finger, telling him, “I’ll see about arranging something the next time I’m in Riften.” She then promptly turned on her heel in a whirl of a cape and sauntered away. 

He stood there gaping like a fish for several long minutes, unable to process what had just happened to him. By the time he could comprehend the fact that he was getting married, Aela had an arm around his shoulders and was laughing in his ear. 

“You are far more doomed than we thought. That woman will have you gaping like an idiot for the rest of your lives.”  

“I think I’m okay with that.” 

“You think?” 

“Aela, I’m not sure of anything right now.” 

Aela responded by bursting into even more laughter. Vilkas was not quite so amused, however everyone else seemed to be and they began toasting his future health and happiness. He was flattered, but mostly unmoved by the congratulations, as most of the men seemed to regard him with a mix of apprehension and pity along with their humor. He can’t say he blamed them. Nayera was a strange woman, even for a Harbinger of the Companions, and being the Dragonborn, they tended to regard her with some mix of fear and awe when she wasn’t around. In her presence, they treated her as they always had. She had that way of keeping everyone around her at ease. 

Most of them had also crossed blades with her and learned quickly to ever fear being on the opposite side of her blows again. Vilkas agreed wholeheartedly. In just three blows she’d managed to put quite a nice dent in his armor, and that was before they’d agreed to take her on as one of their own. 

Farkas and Aela, though, they were genuinely happy for him, for them both. The huntress actually condescended to putting a hand on his shoulder and telling him he did well to find a woman like their Harbinger. Farkas was just amused that he’d be able to call her sister for an entirely new purpose now. 

Vilkas found himself amused, slightly bewildered, but really, underneath every attempt to be blasé about the situation, happier than he ever had been. It was a quiet joy, though, solemn and simple. 

* * *

 

When he made it to the temple in Riften, surrounded by the Companions, Vilkas was met with the sight of one incredibly diverse group of people. There were a few merchants and citizens who Nayera had helped. There were two men in matching armor with numerous pouches, a jester, and a man in strange black and red robes next to a young girl. In the back of the group were three in college robes. 

He remembered what she’d pulled him aside to say a few days before she set out toward Riften. She had dragged him away from the table at Jorrvaskr, out through the doors, past the practice dummies, so that they stood under the Skyforge. It was out of the way enough to grant them relative privacy. 

“Before I explain, I realize that what I am about to tell you may cause you to alter your opinion on marrying me. If you decide that you no longer want this, I will release you. If you decide you need time to decide, that is fine. I have a job to complete in Solitude before I can head to Riften, so I can always return to Whiterun after I’ve completed my business in Hjaalmarch. Is that acceptable?” 

“I doubt that whatever you have to say would change my mind, but yes. I accept.” 

She had shaken her head at him then, as if expecting that this conversation would end with the severance of their betrothal. It had cut him deeply then, it still did now, even though he understood. Understanding simply made it worse. That stab of pain was also coupled with a profound swell of affection for the impossible woman he’d decided he didn’t want to try and live without. 

“All right, now, I know you know I can do some magic, so it really shouldn’t surprise you that I’m part of the College of mages up in Winterhold. What you probably don’t know is that I’m the Arch-mage. It’s more of a title than anything else. I just kind of run errands and get experimented on by the students and faculty. It’s not like I’m the most powerful mage, I’m just, well, right place at the right time, and I’m the one who has the Staff of Magnus-” 

Here he interrupted her, “Staff of Magnus? What does a staff have to do with being the Arch-Mage?” 

“Well, we found this massive orb of energy that we later realized was the Eye of Magnus. We transported it to the College for study, and in the chaos, we realized (with the help of a Psijic monk) that we needed to get rid of it, and to do that, we needed the Staff of Magnus. I was sent to retrieve the Staff, an epic battle ensued, I was entrusted with the keeping of the staff, and the Arch-Mage left me as his heir when he died in said chaos. So, I’m the Arch-mage. But that isn’t the worst of it.” 

She had cringed then. He’d had a feeling he wouldn’t like what she had to tell him and he took hold of her elbow, his fingers almost closing completely around the joint. 

“I know how most Nords treat the concept of honor. I’m sure you know that Dunmer aren’t quite as stringent and that we quite excel at covert plots and stealth. So I’ll just say it. I’m the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood and the Guildmaster of the Thieves Guild. Know that I would never dishonor the Companions and that all of my work with the Brotherhood and the Guild is kept secret. I suppose this makes sense of all those times that I walked over pressure plates without triggering them, why I wear armor that muffles my movements, and explains just how I got so good at picking locks.” She laughed nervously as she said it. 

He didn’t like it, no. He didn’t like it when she told him and he didn’t like it now, but he had looked at her then, just a scant few inches away from him, and he took her measure. His hand had slipped up to her shoulder as he thought about what exactly it would mean to accept this woman as his wife. He knew, even then, that she would always be his Harbinger. Kodlak had trusted her, and the man likely knew exactly what she was as he did so. She had proven herself an honorable warrior and while none of the Companions would be quick to trust just any mage, they trusted her, sword and spells. That she was an assassin and a thief, not to mention the most dangerous assassin and the master of thieves in Skyrim, did not surprise him. He had expected shadows. How could he not when they clung to her? 

By the time his hand had made its way along her shoulder, up her neck, and had began loosing the fabric of the mask, his decision was made. He had pulled the mask from her face and kissed her. 

Only a fool would have given her up over a simple matter of honor. Especially one that was easily resolved. 

* * *

 

They settled into a pretty comfortable routine living in Whiterun. If comfortable included Vilkas worrying himself stupid every time she left to go help the Imperials put down Ulfric’s rebellion, knowing that, along the way, she was going to be assassinating someone, tracking down an escaped criminal, sneaking into someone’s home to steal their prized possessions, and most likely killing a few dragons. He had tried to go with her, but after she mistook him for a bandit on a simple raid and almost took his head off, he’d been banned from accompanying her. He’d come around the other side of a bandit that she was in the process of disemboweling and she’d reacted on instinct. He was lucky she’d recognized him in time to stop her swing or he’d have lost his head quite neatly. Instead she decided to keep Lydia or Coulder at her side and he dealt with the worry by taking as many jobs for the Companions as he could find, partly in the hope that, if he trains harder, she’ll be more likely to release the ban. 

The beastblood keeps them from sleeping much, so any time she’s home, they pass the hours talking. Catching up, sharing experiences, discussing books. He’s come to realize that he married a book hoarder. Every time she comes home there’s a group of books to be added to the bookshelves in Breezehome. From the few times he’s been in her other homes (they both prefer the little house in Whiterun to any of the others), he knows she does the same there as well. All of the weapon racks are filled, as are the mannequins, soon the bookshelves will be also. 

The small quirks that he notices now make him smile. Even the irritating ones. Even the ones that remind him of things he doesn’t like about her. Things that remind him of shadows. He knows that the Alchemy table is used mostly to brew invisibility potions and poisons, because she finds enough healing potions in the dungeons she explores. And as much as he wants to hate that quirk, he knows that, even if she wanted to, she probably doesn’t know how to make one. Because she’s never had to. Somehow, that makes him smile. Maybe just because it’s her. He isn’t really sure why. He isn’t really sure if he cares. He probably doesn’t. 

* * *

 

Farkas was the first to get rid of the beastblood. Nayera had told him that she’d wait for him, that they’d go together. He sat in the Bannered Mare watching his brother, saw his twin look and act happier than he’d been in years. It felt like a lifetime. Farkas drank and joked, flirted with the barmaid. He seemed alive, instead of just living. It was a difference Vilkas hadn’t noticed before. 

Two weeks later Nayera returns from Riften, it is again under Imperial control. Vilkas asks her to go with him to Ysgramor’s tomb. She looks at him with a gentle smile on her face and they both walk there in silence. He tells her about the architecture when the arrive, she’s pulled down her hood and he doesn’t know why, but he’s glad for it. They reach the flame hand in hand and he tosses one of the Glenmoril Witches’ heads on the pyre. The spirit they fight is a massive wolf that, to Vilkas, feels familiar. It is the beast that used to lie dormant within him. They kill it and the recoil knocks him flat on his back. 

“You alright?” 

“Yes, I- I cannot hear your heartbeat any longer, but I feel, more alive. How a true warrior should feel.” 

She grins at him. 

“Ready to do it again?” 

He nods and they square off against her own wolf spirit. 

“Vilkas?” 

“I’m a tad busy, love.” 

“You can come with me, next time I have to run off to save the world. If you want.” 

And he is. He stays with her until she leaves on Odahviing’s wings to Sovengard, and he waits for her. If he resorts to running himself ragged while waiting for her to return, it’s hardly a secret that he worries and this is how he copes. The Companions just patch his wounds, keep him fed, and make sure he sleeps. In between ribbing him about worrying over a woman who can call storms and pull dragons from the skies with only a few words, of course. They’re just good enough not to mention it when he runs to the gates at the first sighting of a woman on a great black horse nearing Whiterun.


End file.
